The Dream Ender

by Dorien Grey

  “That’s good or bad?” I asked.

  “Judge Ferber is a man born far after his time. He’d have been a great judge for Dodge City in the 1870s.”

  “Not good, then, I gather.”

  “Not good. But we’ll deal with him. I just hope we can get some sort of break in the case before trial.”

  “I promise I’ll get those prints somehow by the first of next week,” I said. I didn’t even mention the possibility of what we might do if none of them matched the ones on Jake’s kitchen window.

  *

  I tried three times Wednesday night to reach Tom Spinoza with no luck, and I didn’t even consider leaving another message.

  It hadn’t occurred to me, when Butch said Spinoza worked for the phone company, to ask if he was a home repairman or a lineman. If he was a lineman, he might well have sporadic hours and/or put in a lot of overtime, accounting for his not being home when I called. Or maybe he just didn’t answer his phone.

  It wasn’t until my second call on Thursday night that I finally heard the receiver lifted, followed by “Yeah?”

  “Tom.” I usually didn’t use first names as a matter of courtesy, but in Spinoza’s case courtesy wasn’t an issue. “This is Dick Hardesty calling. I wanted to let you know the police found fingerprints at Jake Jacobsen’s apartment after determining his stolen gun had been used to kill Cal Hysong.”

  I rather expected to hear a hang-up, but there was nothing so I continued.

  “I’m sure the police will start with the guys at the meeting. I’m trying to spare everybody from an interrogation by collecting everyone’s prints to give to the police so they can rule them out without bothering them. However, it’s a damned sure bet that anyone whose prints I don’t have will be at the top of their suspects list. I just thought I’d spare you the hassle.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” he said. “I told you I don’t have the time for this crap, so just leave me the hell alone!”

  Then I heard the click of the disconnect.

  My mental sigh was accompanied by a physical one.

  Ohhh-kay, Hardesty. Now what?

  Garbage time, I guess.

  Well, garbage time was just going to have to wait until Monday night; garbage was picked up on Tuesday morning in Spinoza’s neighborhood, I knew. At least he lived in a single-family house—I’d driven by his place a week or so before when I was in the neighborhood—so I could be fairly certain any garbage at the curb would be just his.

  Friday I had to take Joshua to the doctor to check his progress and have his stitches removed. Jonathan wanted to take time off work to go along, but I convinced him it was a very simple procedure, and I could provide sufficient moral support should it be needed.

  Everything went smoothly, and Joshua took it far more in stride than I would have at his age. We celebrated his bravery with a hot fudge sundae on the way home.

  As an alternative to reading books at Story Time, Jonathan and I had recently begun telling Joshua fairy tales, which totally fascinated him. His favorite, which he insisted on my retelling Friday night for the third time, was one my mother had told me when I was his age, about why the Chinese have very short names.

  “Tell me about Time-Bo!” he insisted.

  “Not tonight, Joshua,” Jonathan said then turned his attention to me. “You know what’s going to happen,” he warned.

  “Yes, please! Tell me Time-Bo!”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes to the ceiling but said nothing more.

  “Okay,” I began. “Do you know why Chinese children have short names?”

  “No,” he said, wide-eyed, playing along like a pro, though he’d heard the story twice before.

  “Well,” I continued, “once upon a time, Chinese little boys had very long names, and there was a little boy named…” I paused, giving him the chance to jump in.

  “Time-Bo!” Joshua responded.

  “Well, not quite,” I said. “His name was Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz.”

  It was important to the story to say the name as rapidly as possible.

  “Yeah!” Joshua replied.

  “And one day, Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz and his sister were out playing in the backyard.” I was very glad he never asked what the sister’s name was. “And do you know what happened then?”

  “He fell down the well!” Joshua exclaimed.

  “That’s right!” I said. “And his sister ran into the house to tell their mother that Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz had fallen down the well. But she was so nervous and excited that by the time she was able to say ‘Rickety-Tickety-Time-Bo-Time-Bo-Meta-Meta-Kibo-Kibo-Blotz has fallen down the well!’ he had drowned.”

  Joshua looked appropriately crestfallen.

  “And that,” I concluded, “is why forever after Chinese boys have had short names.”

  “Rickety-Time-Bo-Kibo-Tickety…” Joshua said, brows knit.

  “You’ll get it,” Jonathan said, reaching out to push him gently down to his pillow and pulling the sheet up to his chin. “But don’t worry about it tonight.”

  “Good night, tiger,” I said, getting up from the bed to join Jonathan, who had moved to the door, his hand on the light switch.

  “Rickety-Tickety-Kimbo,” said Joshua.

  “Go to sleep now,” Jonathan said, shooting me a dirty look and turning off the light.

  *

  On his way to chorus practice on Tuesday night, Jonathan had noticed our neighborhood movie theater was having a weekend CartoonFest and suggested we might call Craig Richman to ask if he’d like to take Joshua while the two of us went out for a just-us dinner. I’d called Craig Wednesday. He initially hesitated, since he was hoping to get together with his boyfriend Bill, but when I offered to pay for Bill’s ticket, too, and spring for a before-the-movie pizza here at the apartment, Craig said he’d check with Bill and get right back to me, which he did. Never underestimate the bargaining power of a free pizza and a movie.

  As always, Saturday chores took up most of the day. We were able to fit in a half-hour at the park for Joshua, but cut it short when the clouds began moving in, threatening rain.

  Craig and Bill arrived, as arranged, promptly at five forty-five, and the pizza was delivered shortly thereafter. Joshua was obviously still jealous of Bill, and though Bill went out of his way—I suspected partly at Craig’s urging—to pay him lots of attention, it was clear where Joshua’s affiliations lay. Bill did earn a brownie point or two, however, when upon being shown Joshua’s scar he praised him on his bravery in surviving such a grievous wound.

  It had not yet rained when it was time to leave for the movie, but even though the theater was within easy walking distance, we drove them over on our way to Napoleon. Jonathan insisted, when giving Craig his house key, that they take an umbrella in case it should be raining when they got out of the theater.

  *

  Jonathan liked to refer to our too-rare just-us evenings as “date night,” and that’s really how we both looked at it, I think. We splurged on a Chateaubriand and had the rare opportunity to concentrate just on each other.

  After dinner, we made a quick run out to Ramon’s for a drink/Coke and to talk with Bob for a bit. Again, not that I in any way regretted Joshua’s presence in our lives, but an occasional “old times” night did me a world of good.

  The rain held off until right after Jonathan and Joshua returned from church on Sunday, and then the skies opened up to the point I expected to see pairs of animals heading for the Ark. I thought of the AIDS bike ride to Neeleyville and was reminded once again why motorcycles never had much of an appeal for me. I didn’t envy the riders getting drenched, though I hoped they’d have sense enough to pull in somewhere until the rain stopped.

  The evening news underscored my hesitations about motorcycles when, reporting on the rain, the announcer mentioned the weather-related death of a motorcyclist killed by a semi just south of Neeleyv
ille. End of report.

  Of course, me being me, I was sure it had to have involved someone from the AIDS ride. I immediately looked up Don Gleason’s number and dialed. I knew Fells, Manners, and Spinoza had also been scheduled to go on the ride, but Don was the only one I felt comfortable enough to call.

  When there was no answer, I had a quick sinking sensation in my stomach. Could it have been Gleason who died? Luckily, I was able to snap myself out of it and left a message asking him to call me as soon as he got in, regardless of the time.

  I then called Jake’s number. I knew he wouldn’t have been on the ride but thought perhaps someone might have called him to tell him about the accident.

  His answering machine picked up, and I was just starting to ask him to call me, when I heard a click and a breathless “Hello?”

  “Jake, hi. I gather I caught you at a bad time?” I said.

  “Not really. I just this minute got in the door. Jared and I spent the weekend up at his cabin. We really needed to get away from town for a while. I left Carrington a little early because of the rain. What’s new?”

  Obviously, even if he’d heard about the accident on the radio, he wouldn’t have had a chance to talk to anyone as to who it might have been who died. I quickly explained my reason for calling and my concern it might have been one of the guys from the AIDS ride.

  “Jeez, no, this is the first I’ve heard of it!” he said. “I know several of the guys who were going—I’ll give them a call and see what I can find out.”

  I didn’t mention I already had a call in to Don Gleason. “I’d appreciate that.”

  We talked for a few more minutes about our respective weekends, but I was in something of a hurry to hang up in case Don might be trying to call.

  I stood by the phone for a minute, as though expecting it to ring. When it didn’t, I went into the kitchen to help Jonathan with dinner.

  *

  The ten o’clock news simply replayed the earlier report, with no new details. I switched channels, but either they didn’t mention it or had done so before I switched.

  Damn!

  No further word from Jake, either.

  Just after Jonathan and I had gotten to bed, the phone rang. Jumping up and grabbing my robe—one minor inconvenience of the good chance that a five-year-old will pop out of the woodwork without warning—I hurried to answer.

  “Dick? It’s Don Gleason. I hesitated about calling you this late, but your message said to call whenever I got in. You heard about Art, I assume.”

  Art? It was Manners who was killed? For some reason, though I barely knew the guy and didn’t particularly like him, I felt a wave of sorrow.

  “Yeah,” I said. “The news didn’t give any details, but I was afraid it might have been someone from the ride. What happened?”

  He sighed. “We were in the hills heading back to town and it started raining like hell. Pete had some sort of problem with his bike and dropped back, signaling for the rest of us to go ahead. Art dropped back, too, to see if he could help with whatever the problem was. From what Pete said the light that comes on when the ignition is turned on before the bike starts kept flashing, and he just wanted to check it out. He told Art to go on ahead, but Art said he’d wait. And when they started out again, knowing Pete and Art, they were going a little fast for conditions trying to catch up with the rest of the group.

  “Art was just a little ways ahead of Pete when they started around a curve and saw a semi coming toward them. Somehow, Art lost control and his bike went right under the truck. He didn’t have a chance.”

  “How did you find out about it?”

  “We were all a couple of miles down the road and realized Pete and Art hadn’t caught up with us yet, but we weren’t too concerned, because if something had been wrong with Pete’s bike, he could have got a lift with Art. But when the police car passed us with its lights and siren on and then an ambulance, we all turned around and headed back.

  “They didn’t need the ambulance, of course. So, after they took Art away and got the semi driver’s and Pete’s statements, they told us all to be on our way. We came back to town and went to the Spike for a drink in Art’s memory. I just got home. What a rotten way for a ride to end!”

  And a life, I thought.

  *

  The first thing I did Monday morning after getting to the office and starting a pot of coffee was to sit down at my desk and scan quickly through the paper, looking for a report on Manners’ death. I found a short article on page four with the heading “Ride for AIDS Ends in Death” that briefly outlined the facts of the incident—that the weekend’s bad weather had resulted in the death of one of the motorcyclists participating in a charity Ride for AIDS fundraiser. The dead cyclist was identified as 35-year-old Arthur Manners…”

  A quick search of the obituary page found no mention of him. I thought that a little odd, since Don Gleason had mentioned Manners was from a very wealthy family. I assumed it would appear in a later edition.

  Again, even though I didn’t care for the guy, Manners was someone I’d met and talked to, however briefly. I don’t like death, in any way, shape, or form, and the death of anyone I have actually met strikes me personally.

  The question of getting Manners to give me his fingerprints was now moot, but it occurred to me the coroner’s office routinely fingerprinted all bodies passing through their department. Tim might be able to get me a copy of Manners’.

  I’d already planned to go garbage-can-diving at Spinoza’s that night, and if I found anything from which I could take his prints, I’d then have prints for everyone at the meeting and could get them to Marty maybe as early as the next day.

  I immediately picked up the phone and called Tim’s work number, leaving a message for him to call me.

  Even though I’d told Glen on the phone just about everything I had learned on the case, I spent the remainder of the morning putting it all in writing, going back carefully over every conversation I’d had and including every detail I thought might have any significance.

  I held off lunch in the expectation—correct, as it turned out—that Tim would call me on his own lunch hour. My stomach was beginning to growl just as the phone rang.

  We kept the call short, since we were both hungry, but Tim agreed to surreptitiously get me a copy of Manners’ prints. I always feel a bit guilty when I ask him for a favor of this kind, since I know he’s probably violating any number of codes, rules, and restrictions in doing so, but he never seemed to mind and I was eternally grateful to him.

  I was just about to ask him how and when I could get them when he beat me to it.

  “Why don’t you and the boys come by tonight after dinner to pick them up?”

  “That’d be great!” I said. “We’ll have to make it quick, since tomorrow is a school day for Joshua. Say seven, seven fifteen?”

  “Perfect. See you then.”

  *

  We got home from Phil and Tim’s just in time to get Joshua ready for bed. It was Jonathan’s turn to do the bath/toothbrush/pajama duties, and I was just thinking about driving over to Spinoza’s to check out his garbage—whoever said being a private investigator wasn’t a romantic job?—when the phone rang. It was Jake.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, Dick,” he said. “I didn’t find out anything at all last night. Most of the guys on the ride were still at the Spike having an impromptu wake for Art. Then I called Jared to tell him, and by the time we were through talking it was too late to get back to you. But I talked to a couple of the guys tonight who were on the ride. They’re still shook up.”

  “Do you know if any of them were very close to Manners?” I asked.

  “I don’t think anyone was really close to Art,” he replied, “except for Arnie Rios, who died from AIDS, which Art swore Arnie got from Hysong. The next closest, probably, would be Pete Reardon. He really took it hard. Well, I sure can’t blame him. If I saw a friend of mine getting run over by an eighteen-wheeler…”


  “I can’t imagine how he must feel.”

  “Yeah. And especially now, when Pete’s trying to get the Male Call.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, Mark Neese—you might not know him, but after Arnie and Pete, Mark was probably as close to Art as anyone—was saying he’d heard Art was going to help Pete finance the deal.”

  Now, that was an interesting bit of news.

  “Why would he do that?” I wondered aloud.

  “Not a clue. Art was kind of a strange duck.”

  Indeed, I thought.

  Wanting to be sure Spinoza had enough time to put his garbage out and hoping he didn’t wait until morning to do it, I decided to stick around until after Story Time to leave the apartment. Joshua wanted me to tell him “Time-bo” again, but I said, “Why don’t we have Uncle Jonathan tell you a story this time?” I knew he didn’t much care who told him a story as long as he got one.

  Jonathan opted for “Rumpelstiltskin,” to which Joshua listened with his usual rapt attention. Caught up in the story, he was still wide awake when it ended. He wanted to hear another, but Jonathan declined with a promise of tomorrow. Tucking him in and telling him to go to sleep, we left the room, turning out the light and leaving the door open a crack.

  Since it still was fairly early, we watched some television until the late news came on, at which point I figured it was time to leave. Giving Jonathan a hug and telling him I’d be back soon but not to wait up, I left.

  It took close to twenty minutes to get to Spinoza’s. I found a parking place three doors down from his house and was just backing into it when I saw someone coming out from the side of his house carrying a garbage bag. I didn’t recognize the guy, but assumed it was Spinoza, whom I don’t think I’d ever seen before.

  I pulled into the parking spot, turned off the lights and engine and watched as he set the bag down on the curb and went back to the house. I waited a few minutes then got out and hurried over to the bag. Rather than rummage through it on the spot, I picked it up and brought it back to the car, putting it in the trunk.

  When I got back home, I pulled into the garage, closed the door from the inside, turned on the light, and took out the garbage bag.